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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494777">Uncommon People</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13'>LadyAJ_13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Historical Inaccuracy, Horseback Riding, Kissing, Letters, M/M, Undercover shenanigans (sort of)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:33:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494777</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Endeavour of Lincolnia is trapped by his status, and even worse - now he's expected to marry a woman he barely knows! But the Oxfordon cohort aren't all bad...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I couldn't help myself... chapters may be a little sporadic but I hope you enjoy this first instalment!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I don’t know Joyce, you’re just… good at this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Prince Endeavour of Lincolnia paces his bedroom while his sister looks on. As usual, he is a bundle of pained energy at the prospect of the upcoming ball - hours upon hours of standing straight, small talk and worst of all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dancing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Joyce perches on the edge of the bed, drawing her legs up beneath her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches the end of the room and spins on a heel to return. That’s one good thing about castles - bedrooms large enough to really stalk across. Build up speed, work off the itchy thrumming beneath his skin that makes his fingers curl into fists and his shoulders tighten. He huffs as Joyce neatly arranges her skirt. There’s no reason why they should be so different. They’ve had the same tutors, the same parents, they’ve been to the same parties and royal events in the past. But Joyce takes it all in her stride. She thrives while he withers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are lots of ways to be King.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs. He knows she’s only trying to help, but it’s not true. There are responsibilities with being King - even more than being Prince - and they already weigh him down like saddlebags of sand. He’s happiest tucked away, reading or listening to music, or on the peripheries, left to observe - anywhere he doesn’t have to display himself to the outside world. But that’s what being a King </span>
  <em>
    <span>is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The face of the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should just be Queen instead. We could have done with it.” He throws himself back on the bed, lightly out of breath, and lets his arms thump above his head. He smiles at Joyce’s tinkling laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not how it works Endeavour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Joyce-”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry, I forgot. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Morse.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Happy?” He nods and reaches out with one hand to catch hers. It’s as familiar to him as his own - from the knuckle freckle on her little finger to the old scar stretching round the base of her thumb. Joyce has always been his one companion, by his side as they grew up locked behind the heavy stone walls of the castle. She’d been the sidekick to his hero in long summer afternoon games, the starry-eyed follower to his leader. Until they left make believe behind and stepped into the real world, and now - well. Now he feels like they came out in the wrong order. If only she had been first, how much easier it would all be. “I still don’t know why you came up with that name.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone calls me Endeavour,” he murmurs. “Random people on the street. I wanted you to have… something else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wrinkles her nose. “But </span>
  <em>
    <span>Morse</span>
  </em>
  <span>? That’s really the best you could-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cuts her off with a playful pinch, and she shoves him, hard enough to dislodge a groan and cause him to white-knuckle the duvet to stay on the bed. He settles, and sighs. “You could have one too, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she says softly. “I’m just Joyce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Princess Joyce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you enjoy it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joyce’s brown eyes consider him carefully. Most wouldn’t think them siblings, if there was any other explanation - him with his wild, flyaway hair and blue eyes, and her with her calm, dark features. But they are royal, and if any family can be sure of the branches of their tree, it’s theirs. He’s just glad, despite it all, they still fit together. He thinks Joyce is the only person he’s ever known who truly knows him. His puzzle piece. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t dislike it,” she says slowly, when he thought she wouldn’t answer at all. “We’re very lucky, and I don’t know any different. I see some of our subjects and wonder-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sits up, twisting until he can grab Joyce’s hands and shake them lightly. “But they’re free!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Free to do what, exactly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods sadly. “I don’t see our life as a cage - no,” she cuts him off when he opens his mouth, catching his cheek in her hand. “I know you do. It hurts you. That’s… well, obviously it’s not okay, but I understand that’s how it is, and you’re entitled to feel how you do. But it doesn’t hurt me. I just… see myself as privileged.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s nothing you’d change?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Joyce snorts, and he grins at her relaxing her iron grip on manners. Long enough in his company tends to do that. “Given a magic wand? Of course there are, but they’re… small. Inconsequential.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse hums, although he’s never quite understood the concept of inconsequential. Everything affects everything else, however minor. For the want of a nail, the war was lost. It’s made him observant and interested in the world, but annoyances also burrow under his skin and dig down deep, while Joyce seems able to slough them off like water over oiled feathers. She darts a cheeky, knowing grin at him before pulling herself off the bed. She fixes her hair, straightens her dress, and when she turns back, is every bit the princess again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The ball,” she states, and he groans. “I’ll knock for you an hour before, make sure you’re presentable.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse pulls at his collar, pointedly ignoring the look he receives from Queen Gwen. It’s tight, and he’s not sure if the palace launderers have changed their soap, but it feels weirdly stiff, cutting into his throat with every swallow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop fidgeting,” Joyce hisses out the corner of her mouth. He rolls his eyes, but makes an effort to stand a little straighter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And my son, James,” introduces the King of Oxfordon. Morse bows as expected, and Joyce curtseys next to him. Prince James is solidly built, tall, but finishes his own bow with an open smile as if this visit is nothing more than a chance to make friends. Morse’s parents don’t make friends. They make alliances. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And of course, my daughter, Shirley.” Morse freezes, before repeating the bow and finishing with the customary kiss on the hand. Gwen and his father had completely failed to mention the existence of a Princess of Oxfordon, which he can’t help but feel doesn’t bode well for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And may I present, in turn, Prince Endeavour and Princess Joyce. We are delighted to have you visit us. I thought in the morning we might take a stroll through the town, but of course there are many other diversions…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets Gwen’s voice fade into the background. Princess Shirley and Prince James are as different as he and Joyce. In comparison to her brother, Princess Shirley is petite, slight, with hair the hue of ripened wheat and a deep periwinkle dress edged with fine embroidery. It complements her colouring while equally conveying the wealth of the Oxfordon royal seat. She is, he supposes, beautiful. He catches her eye and hurriedly switches his gaze to the group more generally.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another man stands back; not quite amongst the servants but not introduced either. He has dark hair and hooded eyes, and the kind of features that make a portrait interesting. He stands straight but relaxed, with his hands clasped in front.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Endeavour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks around. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gwen is too dignified to scold him or scowl in front of such esteemed company, but the twitch of her hands as they fold over her stomach tells him all he needs to know. He raises an eyebrow, inwardly laughing at the way the hands flutter in annoyance. “Princess Shirley needs an escort into the ball,” she says slowly, her musical intonation not quite covering the steel at the heart of the words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grits his teeth, and pastes on a bland smile. “Of course,” he says, holding out one arm. Princess Shirley’s hand rests lightly, and he takes her through the double doors and into the party.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ball is more lavish than most. None of the Lincolnias are really that interested in parties, except for the show that they present. Even so, Gwen has outdone herself in the planning of this one. There are jesters and jugglers aplenty, a cohort of musicians in one corner, and tables spread with delicacies and drinks. The great and the good of the kingdom have been invited, and combined with the servants lining the walls, there must be close to a hundred people present.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Top up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns and recognises George; a page a few years younger than him. He’s really not a very good page, but is eager to please; at events such as this, that equates to him hovering near Morse in the hope of being of service, which would usually be a source of great annoyance. Luckily, he’s learnt over the past few occasions to only pop up when armed with a flagon of mead or jug of wine. He holds out his cup.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Princess Shirley is very beautiful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, he hasn’t yet learned to avoid conversation. Especially of those topics that if anyone else heard him, would lead to a tongue lashing at the very least. “I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Suppose? She’s perfect.” He sighs, and Morse slants his eyes sideways. Yep, the boy has a soft, lovelorn sort of look that makes him seem younger than he is. “Her hair, her eyes, her-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, all right,” he cuts him off, before it can get worse. He gulps his wine, thirsty from dancing. He’d had to take turns around the hall with three noble women, in addition to Shirley. Eventually Joyce had rescued him, before dropping him off surreptitiously in this corner. George refills the goblet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take some of that,” says an unfamiliar voice, and Morse starts - they’re mostly hidden behind a set of pillars, and in his half-drunk haze he’d supposed that meant invisible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, this is for-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pour the wine, George,” Morse says tersely. “And then you may go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George pours, and drips wine on the flagons as he scurries away. Morse turns to the strange, dark-haired man who has joined him; it’s the same one who was hovering before. Not quite a servant, but not quite a noble either. The man smiles, shaking excess wine from his hand where George spilled, and Morse quickly looks away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The dancers are quite mesmerising. A whirl of colour.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A fine party, my Lord.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are not dancing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve danced many times tonight, forgive me if I decide to rest a while.” He takes another gulp of his wine, then realises he really should have sipped. Whatever George unearthed is strong. He leans back on the wall, hoping he looks nonchalant rather than unsteady.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw you, with the Princess. Well, both Princesses, but I meant Princess Shirley.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She is an accomplished dancer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not empty flattery; she had been. Most princesses are, of course - it’s rare to find anyone of noble stock who will stamp on their partner’s feet past the age of seven. But some have more grace, and Shirley had moved as if she understood the music. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you mind, if I ask-” he hesitates. It’s a bad habit of his, according to Gwen - a Prince should always speak knowing what he says is correct. But it can take him a while to organise his thoughts, and if he doesn’t censor himself he tends to speak too plainly and end up offending. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you, to the royal party?” He blushes. Even with the pause, that was clumsily put - he blames the wine, and hopes the other man has also drunk enough that it slips past him unnoticed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes.” That’s… not helpful. He doesn’t know of the position ‘Jakes’. “Companion, I suppose, to Prince James. General helper. Servant class, when it comes right down to it, but I don’t wash the sheets and bake the bread.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even so, if he’s servant class he shouldn’t be standing here, talking to Morse like an equal. But they are mostly obscured by the pillar, and he’s curious. Jakes stands like a courtier, while Morse lets cold stone hold him upright; who is to say which of them is the nobler? He nods at Jakes’ glass. “You’re keen on the wine?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes looks at his cup, as if he’s only just realised he’s drinking. Technically, the goods on display here tonight are for the guests, and Jakes is not quite that. It’s never seemed fair to Morse, though, and he’s not going to begrudge anyone a night off, especially someone he has no direct control over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Relax. I just meant I’ve probably had enough.” He offers out his own, half-full cup. “If you wanted any more, you’d save me drinking it unconsciously and ending up-” he cuts himself off. See, this is why he thinks as he speaks. He’d been about to say ‘causing a scene’, but he shouldn’t admit fault in front of a servant. He offers the cup again instead. Jakes’ fingers brush his as he takes it, but he just sets it down on a ledge to his left. “Oh, er. Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes leans on the wall next to him, crossing his arms while keeping hold of his own cup. The silence stretches until it’s uncomfortable, and Morse shifts, searching desperately for a conversational topic. Their arms nudge as he moves, warmth bleeding through fabric and he relaxes into it before registering the sensation and springing back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was… there was something in that. A little flutter, a feeling he thought was gone, or at least buried deep. It throws him back to six years ago, another man, another who stood between worlds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was hero worship then. At least, he’s decided it was, and as he never told anyone else about it, that means it’s as good as true. Dr Debryn. He was a physician by training, but an all round scientific expert, and his father had brought him in to try and balance out the literature and arts education Morse lapped up like honey. Morse had been resistant at first - not to the knowledge, but to the idea that literature wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>truth</span>
  </em>
  <span> - and snappish at Joyce’s barment from the class, it not being a topic for girls. He had spat and sulked for three lessons, and then Dr Debryn growled and crossed his arms and met him reference for reference until he started listening. Until he realised that behind that bowtie may be a man of science, but one who could speak his language too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not to say that Morse had enjoyed the classes, as such. The theory was all well and good, but Dr Debryn was rather too fond of dissections. He found the inner workings of animals fascinating, and worked under the delusion that all young men were likewise inclined. It had taken a rather embarrassing sideways slide off his seat to halt that particular curriculum. He has a hazy recollection of strong arms catching him on the way down, a memory that haunted him at night; subtle longing never quite burned away by shame.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It couldn’t last forever. After a year Dr Debryn was gone, Morse duly caught up on all he needed to know and the doctor back to treating patients in a distant township. He had tried to recapture the warm camaraderie by reteaching the syllabus to Joyce, but a sister’s love… couldn’t quite fill the sudden absence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you a man of science?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes tilts his head at him. Morse can hardly explain the non-sequitur, though - the jump of feeling and remembrance that sparked his train of thought - so he just raises a questioning eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not especially,” Jakes says finally. “I believe in what I see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I see the Princess seeking you out.” Morse looks up, and sure enough, Joyce is standing on her tiptoes, peering at the edges of the ballroom. By the time he turns back to Jakes, the other man is metres away. He waits, making eye contact before nodding politely, then disappears into the crowd.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day dawns cloudy - or at least, he supposes it does. By the time he rises it is nearer to midday than dawn, but the sky is a troubled mass of grey-white clouds that promise showers. He seeks out a servant for his morning fruit and bread, and he returns with a note from Gwen as well. Morse crumples it into a ball and throws it in the fireplace for later, before falling into some clothes and making his way to her receiving room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wrote?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gwen purses her lips, but lets his poor manners slide. “”Your deportment at the ball last night was substandard, Endeavour. We have spoken about this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If anything, he behaved rather better than he usually does. He stayed until midnight for example, rather than sneaking away by nine with a pocket full of a carefully balanced wine jug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You must show a better face when we have visiting digni-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like Princess Shirley, that you blindsided me with?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gwen folds her arms. “You realise that you are due to marry her, then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence reigns. Words pile up in his mouth, one after another, like a steady stream until he thinks he could choke on them and the only way to breathe is to let them out. “I don’t want-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Want</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Gwen stresses, “does not come into it. Do you think your father </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t possibly imagine. He’d been young when Gwen arrived, still mourning the death of his mother and clutching tight to a teary Joyce who didn’t understand where she’d gone. And then there was Gwen, upright, commanding Gwen, who looked at two upset little children and walked away. He’d never forgiven her for that. For seeing Joyce, tear-stained and miserable, and walking away. But he can accept that she is - if not beautiful, certainly striking. And strong. But if his father hadn’t wanted her, then why is she here at all?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she answers her own question, softly. “He just needed a queen, and I have done my best to fulfil the role to its full requirement.” Her eyes catch his. They are resolute, hard like stone. “You are not a child, Endeavour. You have a role. While I do not imagine you will be a great king, you will be king. Lincolnia’s king. Princess Shirley is an accomplished and beautiful young woman, and to be perfectly frank with you Endeavour, in my opinion, too good to be your Queen. But we have access to the sea, and so the King of Oxfordon is willing to let your many failings slide.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to marry. He’s too young. He doesn’t want to be king. He doesn’t know Princess Shirley. He’s no good at any of this. “But-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lincolnia needs Oxfordon, Endeavour. We are a large kingdom, but our populace is small. We are vulnerable, and these are dangerous times. Oxfordon’s army…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops listening. None of it matters. His protestations die away, shrivelling like chrysalis husks abandoned on the wind. He’s bound to this place, tied down to it, and marriage just one more lock on an already shut fast door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needs to get out of here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns, and he runs - the pounding of his feet on the floor echoing the pounding in his skull, the pounding in his heart. He runs through halls, scattering servants and nobles alike, until his lungs are gasping and he stops, folding in half to rest with his head in his hands. He sinks into a crouch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needs to get out of here. Properly out, away from Gwen, away from his father, away from the castle, with its walls and its rules. The lake. Tonight. He’ll go to the lake.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The night is cold and dark, but he’s grateful for it. He pulls his oldest cloak tighter around his shoulders, hurrying away from the city wall gate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There - a flash - he freezes. Everything is quiet. As his eyes adjust, though, they pick out more than just stars. A faint glow, orange, and a dark figure, leaning against ashy coloured stone. It’s the end of one of those smoking sticks, he realises, that he sometimes sees the townsfolk puffing on. He’s never seen the appeal, wrinkling his nose at the smell, and tiptoes on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t have expected to see little princes out of bed at this hour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tells himself it’s the recognition that stays his escape; whoever this is can’t be allowed to report his wanderings. But really there’s a shade of familiarity in that voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns. “You can’t speak to me like that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's not what he wanted to say. He’s not sure what he did want, only knew something had to fill the air between them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No?” The orange glow drifts; Jakes’ arm now down at his side. “Going to report me to Jim? Tell him I wasn’t sufficiently subservient when you ran into me on a clandestine journey out of the city at midnight?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Big words for a servant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I can’t speak to you ‘like that’,” he has no idea if Jakes is making the gesture, but he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>the emphasis, “I thought I’d try your language. That’s how you talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not if we can help it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.” The glow drifts again, and now that his night vision is fully in, the sprawling figure of Jakes shows up almost stark against the light coloured wall. He sucks on the stick, then lets out smoke in a long, thin stream. “Go on then,” he gestures, then waves the stick. “Go wherever you were going. I won’t tell if you don’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse has more to lose - it’s not a fair deal. He’s not sure why Jakes is offering it at all, except that for someone in a royal household he seems to have little real regard for status. But Morse thinks of the path he’d planned to tread - deep into the forest and down to his favourite lake, just a chance to get away for an hour - and instead tramps back through sodden grass to lean next to Jakes. “Wasn’t going anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t you get held to task for night-time wanderings? It’s a lot to risk for nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse shrugs. The stone has kept some of the warmth from the day, and here, he is out of the wind. It’s almost comfortable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Want to try?” Jakes offers the stick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A refusal rises in his throat but then - why not? It’s not like he’ll come across another chance soon. A prince can’t be seen buying such things. He plucks it from Jakes’ fingers, ignoring the light brush of skin on skin. He raises it to his lips, and breathes in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh god - he coughs, violently. Jakes must be trying to poison him, built up his own tolerance and now uses this to dispatch rival princes for his master - except Jakes is laughing, fist in his mouth to muffle the sound, and using the other hand to hit him on the back hard enough that he can catch his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What was-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, I forgot, if you’re new to it-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>that?” Jakes’ hand is still warm and heavy between his shoulder blades, and he keeps as still as possible. He can’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t Joyce touched him - it might even have been that blood-spurred swoon in the classroom - and certainly not in this carefree, careless manner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s good.” Jakes grins at his glare, teeth a flash of ivory in the darkness. “It is,” he insists. “Once you get used to it. Takes a bit of practice. Should’ve known little princes wouldn’t be up for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes’ hand falls away, and the cold night rushes back. He bends, rooting in the grass for the stick Morse dropped when the coughing fit hit. It’s gone out, but Jakes just shakes it off and stows it in his jacket pocket, like he’ll go back to it later. The idea of his lips curling round where Morse’s were - any time, tomorrow morning perhaps, when he’s been sent on an errand by Prince James - makes his cheeks flush lightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not so much of the little, I’m the same size as you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hardly,” Jakes scoffs, from his superior half-inch in height. “But seriously, put you next to Jim and you’re practically pocket sized.” He gapes; Jakes seems to have taken this interaction as carte blanche to say any treasonous thought that enters his head. To insult the Prince of the Kingdom you stand in - it’s unthinkable. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>should be</span>
  </em>
  <span> unthinkable. “Don’t worry, what is it they say about small packages?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good things,” he mumbles helplessly, and just catches a wink in his direction. He shakes his head. “You’re very odd, you know that?” He holds his breath after the words; it’s not a sentence he would usually dare to utter, but Jakes carves away any sense of propriety. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes just smiles again, and leans back on the wall. He nods his head to his side, and waits until Morse leans too. The heat of Jakes seeps through two layers of clothing and his old cloak, and it’s just arm against arm. “It’s you lot who’re odd. I’m a normal person. You just don’t see many of them, I’d wager.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see townsfolk all the time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes hums, unimpressed. “On official visits? Tours of the streets? Meetings where they come to ask pardon, or favour, or to have disputes settled?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse’s ears burn. Yes, but they are all perfectly reasonable places. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to get down the taverns. Or push your way through a crowded market when six housewives are fighting for the last four loaves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse snorts. He sees Jakes’ eyebrows rise out of the corner of his eye, but he says nothing. “I would if I could, let's put it that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tired of the life of luxury? Poor little-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Prince, yes I know!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was going to say ‘rich boy’.” Jakes digs in his pocket and pulls out the smoking stick. He holds it out. “Go on, take it then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse takes it gingerly, turning it around in his fingers. Strange to think how it changes when lit. Right now it’s just a sad sort of paper roll, mildly damp from the grass. “I’m not sure I want it,” he says dubiously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something to remember me by.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re leaving?” His heart thumps. That must be why Jakes has been so unconcerned - no chance of retribution if he’s moving on. Strange, in the middle of an official visit, but perhaps he had wanted to head this way anyway, and took advantage of the royal travelling arrangements. He curses the lack of a moon. Jakes is nothing more than shadows and highlights in the darkness, and now he might never see him again - he’s not sure why that’s so important, but it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To bed. It’s gone one, and unlike some, I’ll be up with the sun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” Not leaving. Not gone, just going. He will leave though, the visit will come to an end - in no more than a couple of weeks, at most - and then they'll be on separate paths again. He feels too frantic by the idea for someone he’s just met; two conversations and a shared smoke. “Well I’ll see you tomorrow then, no doubt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows Jakes is looking at him by the turn of his head, but a cloud has dimmed the night until even the stars are winking out. He can’t see his expression.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Won’t be like this though, Prince Endeavour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morse,” he says hurriedly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s… you can call me Morse if you want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morse,” replied Jakes, the sound rolling around his mouth. “Where’d that come from, then? Middle name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It sounds childish, suddenly, inventing a nickname for oneself. “No, just… something my sister calls me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just want me to stop using little prince.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse laughs, tension broken. “Perhaps that’s it.” He holds up the smoking stick. “And thank you, for this. I’m sure I’ll…” he makes sure to infuse his tone with the right amount of disgust, “treasure it always.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I will remember you hold my favour,” Jakes says, walking backwards until he disappears in the gloom. There’s the clunk of the wall gate opening, and a faint squeak as it swings back on its hinges. “Night, Morse.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It may have been over three months since chapter one, but I did say updates would be sporadic, so... sorry, but you were warned :D Chapter 3 currently is one and a half scenes mostly in note/draft form (so may be a while again), while chapter 4 (naturally) is completely ready to go. Because that's how I write, apparently.</p>
<p>I made an outline for this story, and all I've done in this chapter is cover the plot points I planned to - and yet it feels like it covers a huge amount of ground? And naturally came out a good 1500 words longer than expected. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>different the next day. How could it be the same? The darkness acted as a leveller - here, now, he’s awkwardly aware of their difference in status. James greets him good morning with a hearty clap on the shoulder and Jakes - well, he hangs back, deferential in action if not spirit. He tries to catch his eye, but Jakes is fidgety, distracted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A ride,” James announces. The sky is clear and blue now, the sun still weak but with a presence that says it will warm as the day progresses. It’s perfect riding weather, if that was an activity in which to take much pleasure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We could,” he hedges. “But I haven’t shown you the library yet - we have quite an array of-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Endeavour,” James cuts him off, shaking his head. “Libraries are for rainy days, and only then if there are no games to be had instead. Today is a day to be outside.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would be churlish to refuse a visitor, and Morse can’t help but like James. Usually he’s slow to warm to people, but James treats the whole world like a friend. He treats Jakes like one too, in a way he’s never seen before between master and servant. Morse can’t imagine treating Jakes like a friend - not here, in the open, for anyone to see. Even as he longs for the easy closeness of the night before, Jakes in sunlight unsettles him until his every limb placement feels awkward, every word choice stumbling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are the princesses to come too?” asks Jakes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’d only slow us down,” says James, and Morse gulps. Joyce is a far better rider than he, even side-saddle. She approaches horses with her no-nonsense attitude, and in turn, they treat her like Snow White. The only time he ever saw her fall was when she was trying to haul him back upright after Yarrow shied at a rabbit. They’d both gone down in an ungainly heap, her elbow in his gut, and ended up walking home battered and bruised.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Princess Joyce is an accomplished rider,” he argues.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James leans close and grins. “Yeah, so’s Shirl. But just boys today, hey?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not going to argue further, not for the inclusion of Shirley. He should be wooing her, but instead, avoids her every step. He feels like a fugitive, peeking around corners in his own home, constantly alert for a flash of blonde hair. What’s even more ridiculous is that he doesn’t particularly dislike her. They are - utterly coincidentally, he’s sure - placed next to each other at every meal, and she seems nice enough; a pleasant, if polite, conversationalist. But he doesn’t want to marry her, and going by Gwen’s proclamation, the only way to ensure that is for her to refuse him. The last thing he wants to do is encourage her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the horses are saddled, they head out of the main gate rather than the side door. They trot through the upper town before taking a winding side path that leads them out in the woods. It’s cooler under the shade of the trees, and James picks up the pace to a gentle canter, only slowing again when they break out into sunny meadows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse guides them to the lake; his aborted trip last night means he’s not been in far too long, cooped up by the winter, and it’s the prettiest bit of countryside around. They take the long way round, letting the horses amble along and snatch occasional bites of sweet spring grass. The wildflowers are beginning to bloom, although they won’t be at their most impressive for a few weeks yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lincolnia is very beautiful,” comments James. From most people, it would sound like a trite compliment, but there is a contented smile on his face and a genuine feeling to his tone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The lake I’m taking you to is my favourite.” Morse pulls Yarrow up a little so they ride two abreast. “In summer it’s a beautiful spot to swim, it’s just a shame the water will be too cold this early in the year.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That depends on your tolerance,” Jakes mutters from behind, and James barks out a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That it’s beautiful in summer, or too cold now?” he questions, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Forgive Jakes, Endeavour, when we’re alone he has a rather freer run of what he can say than most.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse sneaks a glance over his shoulder; Jakes smirks at him and whatever he was about to say flees his brain. “It’s fine,” he says vaguely instead, turning back to face the front. “I don’t mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The horses know where they’re going, and duck into a small patch of trees without direction. On the other side, they emerge again into sunshine, dappled in places, and a small dirt path that widens into a stopping point. Morse pulls Yarrow up, and the others halt too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is it,” he says, swinging himself from the saddle. “Well, the best bit. The lake extends far that way, and there are better places for fishing and swimming. But this is the best spot for sitting, and paddling if you can stand it.” In the sunlight the water glints almost green, but it's clear and shallow enough for pebbles to be seen through it at the edges. The grass is verdant and lush, and he knows it will be soft with new spring growth. He loosens Yarrow’s girth and ties him to a low slung branch. Jakes sees to both other horses, while James stands with his hands on his hips, surveying the water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very nice Endeavour,” he proclaims, one large hand falling on his shoulder. “A first class choice of destination. Jakes, have you got the picnic?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As much as he hadn’t wanted the excursion, Morse can’t deny that there is something indulgent about a midday meal eaten in the sunlight while grass tickles your fingers. The lake is working its magic on him, and Jakes has prepared wonderfully, sourcing a blanket and a wide range of fruits, bread, cheese and meats. There’s even a flagon of ale, which they leave to settle until it becomes too tempting, then crack open. There are no goblets, but Morse thinks of a smoking stick between his lips and finds he doesn’t mind passing the flagon back and forth between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun strengthens as they eat, until they’re shedding jackets and still too warm despite the season. James sprawls on half the blanket, closing his eyes against the sun. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said this is the best spot for paddling?” Jakes’ hair has clumped with sweat, and dangles in tendrils round his face. It’s rather distracting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not one to disagree with a local expert.” Jakes unties his boots, pulling them off and following it up with socks. He has wide feet, Morse notes, compared to his legs. He looks back up to find Jakes smirking at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Care to join?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose it would be rude not to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stones make it unsuitable for walking far barefoot, and anyway, the length of this little cove isn’t more than a handful of strides. So they stand instead, ankle deep with trousers folded up, and stare out at the expense of water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How big is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It takes maybe an hour to ride around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes looks over his shoulder, before turning back to the wide open water. “Well, that tells me nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Walk, trot, canter or gallop?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” The stumbling words again. He shifts, water sloshing cool around his ankles, and tries to think about former rides. He usually doesn’t bother with a horse, instead pushing his way through undergrowth on foot. “Walk, I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So not large, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse shrugs. It’s the only lake he knows, and it’s always seemed large to him, but he doesn’t know what they have in Oxfordon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Small enough you could show me some of the other spots. For swimming, and such.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s too cold-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t have to go in. Didn’t bring my bathers anyway, and I doubt you have yours. Not that I’d mind you going in-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes!” he cuts him off with a shocked hiss, his hand closest to the other man clenching into a fist to prevent him from reaching out and tugging his arm. He imagines where that sentence might have been going, and curses the familiar warmth rising in his cheeks. James might allow Jakes a surprising amount of leeway, but even he must draw the line somewhere. It might be faint, but he would expect it to be somewhere before talking about nakedness with a foreign prince.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Relax,” a hand catches him by the arm briefly, then releases. “He’s asleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A snore rings out, and he almost cricks his neck spinning to look back at the blanket. Sure enough, James is sprawled in the sunshine, chest rising and falling in soothing regularity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll have a good hour if no one disturbs him. And there’s no one but us for a mile or more. So. Want to show me something else?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They gather their boots, pulling them on over still damp skin, but that’s better than sharp twigs catching bare feet. Morse leads them into the trees, until the sunshine is a memory, shrouded by the canopy of leaves. As they walk, he talks. It’s half nervousness and half because it’s unusual to have a willing audience; he identifies the plants they pass, and if Jakes already knows them he keeps schtum, letting him ramble on. By the time the path starts wending its way back to the shoreline, he’s treating him to a condensed treatise on the use of various wildflowers in dyes and paints.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re quite smart underneath it all, aren’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bristles. “Underneath it all?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The-” Jakes waves an arm, flapping it wildly, “-royalness. The propriety and manners and using the right fork for the right beast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse snorts. “You’re the first to call me proper in a long time. Gwen would rinse your mouth out with soap for even suggesting my conduct was sufficient.” Jakes laughs, and Morse decides he likes the sound, here where it can ring out and there’s no one to look askance. “So... is James?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah. No, Jim can come across as a bit…” Jakes screws his face up in place of a word, and follows it up with a shrug. “But he’s got his head screwed on. He’ll make a good King.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Unlike me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes raises an eyebrow. The path is wide enough to walk two abreast, but only just, and when he turns his head to look at Jakes it seems narrow indeed. “Why unlike you? I thought we’d just-” he puts on his royal voice, which is higher and more than a little nasally, “ascertained you were not of idiot stock.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I don’t want to be. And who can succeed at something they have less than half an interest in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Less than half?” Jakes kicks at a nearby rock, sending it skittering across into Morse’s path. He skips to change legs, and kicks it further on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d put it at… maybe 10%.” Jakes doesn’t answer, and the sudden silence feels too empty. “Joyce would be a wonderful queen. She understands it all, she likes being someone people look up to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you don’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse huffs a laugh. “People don’t look up to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe if you wore heeled boots.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shoves Jakes, who grins as he catches himself on a tree trunk and pushes his way back on to the path. He walks closer than before, close enough their hands brush with every step. Morse would move away, he would, but that’d leave him trampling undergrowth and George would groan at the tracks of mud in his chambers and boots that needed to be cleaned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure they do look up to you,” Jakes continues, voice soft. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know I’m clever-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All right, big head-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But a king, a prince - should be more than that. You notice the lack of a tournament?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes shrugs. “They’re all the same, I don’t know why it’s tradition to put them on for visiting nobles. Waste of money, if you ask me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. But that’s not why. If there was a tournament they’d expect me to be in it, and maybe I could lose to James and it would be okay - how noble of me to not embarrass a guest - but I’d lose to everyone. I’d lose to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes is quiet for long enough that Morse’s shoulders rise; he’s said too much, forgotten who he’s with. Here in the dark, hushed peace of the forest it is too easy to let things come spilling out he would never voice at court. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, wait,” Jakes claps his hand on Morse’s opposite shoulder. It leaves his arm practically around his neck, and the sensation of being almost surrounded surprises him enough to stop his mouth. “I was just trying to work out if that was a compliment or not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It wasn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, great.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d lose to Joyce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Again, your sister seems frighteningly competent, I’m not sure if-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is it.” They step out into bright sunshine, and like something that can’t survive the light, Jakes slips his arm away. The sun glints on the water, welcoming, like every summer he has come down here to jump off the bank and swim through the shock of water. He crouches at the edge and lets his hand trail through until his fingers are numb with cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes pats down his pockets and grimaces. “You haven’t still got that cigarette, have you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has, he’s embarrassed to say. Even found himself transferring it from his old cloak to his bedside table last night, then on into his jacket pocket this morning. He pulls it out, and Jakes takes it with a relieved sigh, striking a match and sucking on it deeply. “I thought it was my favour?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes quirks his lips, stick - or cigarette, he’d called it - still in his mouth. Interesting, Morse thinks again. Interesting was how he’d first thought of Jakes, stood behind unknown royalty, and it hasn’t quite gone away. His face moves in ways Morse doesn’t think his own does, making him want to trace the lines and angles with his fingertips. He’s never been much of one for art, preferring the abstract notions conjured through music, but he sees now the attraction of forming shapes, of creating a copy, if it can capture moments like that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could give you something else.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes’ eyes are darker than usual. How often has he been looking, to know that? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you want it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He runs a hand through his hair, turning so he’s not looking at Jakes. Something about the man makes him want to keep looking, and the longer he does, the harder it is to look away again. But this is… he can’t want this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to say, if you want it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s just a favour, right? Not something he should carry from another man, but just a trinket, a nothing that will pass unnoticed, he’s sure, by everyone but himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want it,” he says roughly, knowing his cheeks are pink and cursing himself for it. If anything, it should be the other way round, he should be bestowing gifts on Jakes, but Jakes </span>
  <em>
    <span>offered</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he’d never thought about something like this before, and there’s nothing in his pockets but a few coins and -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cigarette is dropped near his feet, smoked down now, and one of Jakes’ boots grinds it out. A tendril of sadness, disappointment, curls through his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sit with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes drops to the ground, sitting back so his long legs are in front of him, bent enough for his elbows to rest on the knees. He pats the patch of grass beside him, and Morse finds his legs folding up. He’s misjudged the distance in his haste, an edge too close so Jakes’ knee nudges his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t move it away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morse?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t really have a lot,” he admits. “And I’m never that creative; I wouldn't know how to make something that wasn’t immediately destined for the rubbish heap.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes looks him deep in the eyes, and Morse suddenly relates to prey animals who stop and stare when death hunts them down. He’d always thought that stupid, couldn’t understand why they didn’t run, why they didn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But he could no more look away now than he could fly to the moon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of Jakes’ hands comes up to rest on his shoulder, then drifts upward to cup his face. His thumb brushes the underside of his cheekbone, and he finds himself leaning in. This is just what he’d dreamt about, those long nights imagining Debryn’s hands and how they might touch him - but that had been furtive, unseen, and ultimately fantasy. Here the sun beats down and shines Jakes’ hair to a gleam, and the bird calls echo in a midday sky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first touch of lips is tentative, so soft it’s barely there. The second is surer, a firm press that steals away any breath he had left. He hadn’t known. It had always seemed faintly ridiculous, even as he wondered about it, that the poets and playwrights would put such store in a simple touch. But there’s more to it than a press of hands or even the illicit brush of forearms; somehow it transcends mere skin on skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes draws back. “All right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, and pulls Jakes back in. It’s some kind of drug, he’s sure, like the first time he tasted mead and his father had to take the bottle away, telling him his head would thank him in the morning. But he doesn’t think this can be wrong, not even when he pushes a little too far and Jakes opens beneath him and that’s even better, the wet twist of a tongue against his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure how long they trade kisses back and forth. Long enough that he’s burning from it, and possibly from the sun too. “How long have we been away?” he breathes between kisses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Prince James, you said - an hour -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes yanks backwards, out of his grip, and the change is disorientating. But he can’t help a shy sort of pride at the wild look in Jakes’ eyes, the way he hauls Morse to his feet and pushes him back into the forest. Jakes straightens his shirt and smooths his hair as he goes, and Morse follows until Jakes goes to turn the wrong way, then grabs his hand and pulls him down the right path.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They find James awake and packing up. They separate, improvising a story of a shady walk instead of staying in the hot sun. Jakes takes over the clear up, then the three of them ride back to the castle in silence. James still seems slightly sleepy, and Morse’s head is filled with the slick slide of lips on his, the secret curl of excitement in his stomach, and the shake of his hands as he’d worried where to let them land. He wants to reach out again, and holds the reins too tightly instead, digging his nails into the braided leather. He catches Jakes looking at him three times; with each lock of eyes on his he blushes, and looks hurriedly away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, when they clatter across the courtyard and through the archway, the sweet smell of a sun-warmed stable and soft snuffling of horses feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>: more vibrant, more present, more alive. James passes his horse to Jakes, and Morse hurriedly unsaddles Yarrow before finding a stable boy to deal with the rest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He aches to sidle close to Jakes, feel the warm of his skin against his, the soft, tantalising brush of lips - but James is </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He makes his excuses before escaping to his room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A knock sounds sharply at his door the next morning; a rat-a-tat-tat unlike Joyce’s usual half-hearted announcement before she barges in. A servant, perhaps, one who’s particularly rushed off their feet and blitzing through chores without realising how such a proclaiment could be taken. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He marks his page and twists in the chair at his desk. “Come in!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Letters, sire,” comes a familiar drawl as the door swings wide. He scrambles to his feet, darting a glance back at his unmade bed, the clothes he’s left piled on the spare chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jakes! What are… why are you delivering letters?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jim said to find a servant, but they’re like little mice here. Scurry away before you can catch their eye.” He jabs the letters towards Morse again, and he takes them gingerly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still, you shouldn’t have to-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Jakes is standing oddly stiffly. “Most would think I should.” He nods at the letters. “See you soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes closes the door behind him, and Morse can’t help but wonder what it was he said that led to that interaction. He’d have thought they’d never shared more than a greeting and a request from noble to servant. Not… everything that happened under a springtime sky. He bites his lip, and slides a finger under the wax seal of the top letter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Endeavour, </span>
  </em>
  <span>writes a large, open hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My sister would welcome your company on a walk through the gardens. She is fond of the outdoors, and a little bird tells me you know plants well. If you are free tomorrow morning, the weather is predicted to be dry. Yours, Jim.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tucks it away again. It can only be Jakes who told him of his knowledge of local flora, and that thought warms him even while his stomach sinks at the thought of pretending to woo Princess Shirley. He turns over the other envelope. This one is rougher, and rather than properly sealed with wax, the upper flap has just been tucked inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Morse,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it begins. The letters loop, but messily - it makes the name he chose for practicality and anonymity look important. His heart beats faster. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Come with me this afternoon, if the little prince still wants to see how the other half live. Same gate as before. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The final loop might be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>J</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or might just be a squiggle. It doesn’t matter. He still traces the lines of it over and over, until Joyce knocks to remind him about lunch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a grey sort of day, and after a leisurely lunch during which - after pointed looks from the queen - he tried to involve himself in Joyce and Shirley’s conversation, it is remarkably easy to slip away. Joyce knows he has no interest in drawing, which is the ladies’ preoccupation for the next few hours, and Jim had proclaimed his desire to try and serenade them with the lute. Shirley had grimaced and teased him enough to make clear to the party that it would be more strained plucking than practiced strumming, and given his love of music, there’s no surprise when he excuses himself. They head from the drawing room, while he scurries back up to his chambers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How the other half live</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What does that mean? It means not princesses and dukes, not royalty of any kind. He fingers the trim of his tunic; the neat, even stitching and soft weave. This won’t do at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dives into the very depths of his wardrobe, and by the time he emerges, he’s in an ensemble he would normally be embarrassed to be seen in. He’d get strange looks in it in the stable - the fact he’s willingly wearing it to meet up with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jakes</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all people feels ridiculous. But - the other half. The half who often wear breeches with holes in the knees, because they have no fabric to patch, let alone another pair to wear. He eyes the darkening clouds and swings his oldest cloak around his shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His trek down to the gate is fraught. All those nights he thought so difficult: ha! How easy it is to hide in shadows, compared to sneaking in the daytime when the corridors are thronged with people. He thanks the stars he grew up here, and that he never achieved the bulk of someone like Prince James - he darts in and out of childhood hidey holes, drawing limbs tightly in, and finally spills out of the town walls with a gasp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes raises an eyebrow, leaning against the stone. “Took you long enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? Maybe I should go back then-” A hand fists in his tunic, dragging him forward, and he grins at the look on Jakes’ face. “Or not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Second option,” Jakes smirks, planting an all too brief kiss on his lips. The contact still makes his skin sing. “Hmm.” Jakes holds him by the shoulders at arm's length, then spins him. “It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but you’re more Prince Endeavour rolled in the washing pile than a commoner.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t exactly have-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know,” Jakes cuts him off. He swings an old cloth bag from his shoulder and pulls out a pair of trousers, a shirt, even another cloak, if the ragged material can still be classed as such. “Get changed then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes, and does so quickly, perfunctionarily. The material of the tunic is rough against his skin, and the trousers slightly too large - Jakes loops a length of rope around and hauls it tight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A proper little rag boy,” he says, slightly too pleased. Morse wishes there was a mirror around, because he’s not sure of the glint in Jakes’ eyes - whether it’s humour or not, whether the joke is in general or at his expense. But there’s nothing he can do now. A hand ruffles through his hair, and he watches Jakes warily as he purses his lips. “Have to do something about this, too. One look at those curls and anyone in the kingdom will think Prince Endeavour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes turns abruptly, and crouches. When he stands back up, his hands are covered in dirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you’re not putting </span>
  <em>
    <span>mud</span>
  </em>
  <span> in my-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too late. Jakes had grinned, and the split second of distraction - his hands are on Morse’s head, tugging the hair this way and that, massaging the scalp, and it would feel good - his eyes are suddenly heavy - except for the cool drip of dark sludge round his ears that smells of earth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perfect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes tweaks his hair again, but like he’s settling it into place this time. His hands are stained brown, and he wipes them on his trousers, leaving dark smudges and dirt still ingrained in his palm lines. “Yes. Now you’re ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A mirror feels more needed than ever before, but the only way to do that is to try and sneak back </span>
  <em>
    <span>into</span>
  </em>
  <span> the castle - dressed as a commoner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All right, fine. Let’s go then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They duck back through the gate, and after a short walk pop out in the main market square. It’s bustling, filled with traders from the outlying villages hawking their wares and locals picking up both essentials and luxuries. It’s loud, too, and as they walk he’s jostled by the crowd. Jakes sneaks a hand back and fixes it around his forearm; a precaution against getting separated until they’re through the main crush and it thins out a bit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s working,” he can’t help whispering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“People see what they expect to see, most of the time,” Jakes says over his shoulder. He leans close to a stall of pretty knick knacks, and Morse hovers awkwardly on his other side, making sure to keep out of the eyeline of the stallholder. Besides, he’s fascinated by the push and pull of a crowd acting naturally rather than on their best behaviour. Across the way a young man makes a woman blush by whispering in her ear. A boy pushes his friend, who pushes back until the two of them stumble half into a pig pen and re-emerge with muddy boots. They act the way he does with Joyce, but they do it here, in the open, for anyone to see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Jakes gets bored, they move on. He buys them mutton pies - Morse had blushed to realise he forgot to bring any coins, his infrequent market purchases usually being charged straight back to the palace account - and they lean against a couple of barrels to eat them, watching the world pass by.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And pass it does. Kids scurry underfoot and men ignore them and women’s eyes slide over him, catching briefly on Jakes and then moving on from him too. This must be how it feels to be normal. It’s… perfect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could actually live like this. They could spend their days doing this - just wandering the streets, bread torn from a loaf for dinner and an evening beer in the tavern. They’d have to work, of course, but they could find farm labour or act as tutors, whatever. It could work. It could… it could. It doesn’t have to be a fantasy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to be a prince. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His grip slackens, and the end of his pastry falls into the dirt. A stray dog darts over and wolfs it down, then noses hopefully at his trousers for more. Jakes nudges it away with a shoe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You alright?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yeah, it’s-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Endeavour?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His blood freezes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It could be nothing, he tells himself, someone talking about him not to him - but he spins on his heel anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh thank god. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“George,” he greets the page, awkwardly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What on earth happened to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs George by the shoulder and around the side of one of the stalls into an alley, before they make enough of a scene that people start taking second looks. He feels Jakes at his shoulder; a solid, steady presence that nevertheless is leaving this interaction in his control.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s George. George is his enabler, to some extent of the word. He finds the wine jug with the lid, for better pocket transportation, and he pilfers platters of treats and delivers them behind pillars and into dark corners like he has some kind of homing beacon for his prince. His very presence makes Morse roll his eyes, but he’s probably - barring Joyce - the closest thing he has to a friend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thought makes his brain twist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m undercover,” he hisses. If there’s anyone he can trust with a version of the truth, it’s George. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!” A grin lights up his face. “Making sure the market traders are acting fairly? And the people are happy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, yes.” Well, now he feels guilty. Although he supposes he had been watching them as they went about their lives. If there had been anything untoward he would have - probably - intervened.  “No one can know about this, okay George? It’s a secret. Otherwise… otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do it again, it’d get out and then there’s no one… keeping an eye.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No worries End-” a hand clamps over George’s mouth, and it wasn’t his. Morse raises his eyebrows at Jakes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bad enough he said it once,” he shrugs, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his mud-stained breeches. George grimaces. “Don’t use that name here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morse,” Morse says. “If you ever see me here, call me Morse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George nods, and draws himself up. He’s actually quite grown-up, Morse realises. He’d got used to the idea of George as a boy, but it’s been years - he’s not the same bumbling fool he’d been when he first arrived. He’s unconventional, perhaps, and certainly it makes little sense how he’s attached himself to Morse rather than Joyce, as he seems to have no real desire to become servant to the King - but he’s no idiot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, not always.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your secret is safe with me,” he announces, then turns smartly on his heel and walks into the crowd. Morse watches until he disappears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it actually safe?” asks Jakes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think so. George is… he’s okay.” He smiles at Jakes. “Now - I think you should take me round the rest of the market. We haven’t seen the animal traders yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakes rolls his eyes, and the wariness clinging to him like a second skin dissipates. He even slings an arm around Morse’s shoulder, guiding him out of the alleyway and back into the bustle. “Do you really want to see the animal traders? Because I found a little stall yesterday that does the best fruit tarts...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Later that night, the drawing room fire crackles and dances. Morse watches over the top of his book as a log crumbles and sparks flare. Jim had retired with a headache, and Shirley - according to a whisper in his ear from Joyce - was annoyed that Jim had already used that excuse, as she had been planning to use it to sneak out of the castle for a reason she failed to divulge. The official story was that she had retired with women’s troubles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse had been ruminating on this new piece of information for quite some time. Where could she be going? Joyce hadn’t seemed worried, so no doubt it was for fun rather than necessity. But equally, she had chosen not to accompany her. He makes a note to trap George later - to follow up on this afternoon, but also because he’s most certainly got a crush on the woman, so if anyone has noticed her nocturnal wanderings it will be him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches Gwen in the opposite corner for a few minutes. She’s working on her needlework, but she struggles in the low light and soon grows frustrated. Her progress is always slow, but for some reason she views fine embroidery skills as part and parcel of being a queen. Morse thinks of Boudicca, with her mud-streaked face and feral armies under her control. Arguably the greatest queen, and no doubt she never used a needle. Except perhaps in sewing up her own battle wounds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gwen packs away her things. “I’ll say good night,” she says wearily. “Don’t stay up too late.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morse waits until the door closes behind her, and they’re truly alone. He misses these evenings, just the two of them. As children they’d be banished together from the drawing room, but these days there’s usually one parent or the other, or some visitor to entertain. Joyce closes her book and flops back on her couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Joyce,” he starts hesitantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what we were saying the other day… about how you should be Queen instead?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mo-orse,” she groans. “I thought we said, that’s not how it works. You’re here, you’re male, you’re older than me - you’re next in line.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if I wasn’t here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sits up slowly, then shuffles down the couch until they’re knee to knee. When she speaks, her voice is small. “Endeavour? What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets the name slip go. “I could leave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “No, it’s not - that’s not -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could.” He grips her hands in his. “I could go anywhere, do anything. I can read and write, I could be a scribe, or a tutor. Like Dr Debryn. And you could have the kingdom, do a better job of it than I ever-” he cuts himself off, at the tears welling in her eyes. “I’d visit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve actually thought about this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” She pulls herself free, and cups his face in one hand. She blinks the tears away and her gaze is determined. “No, you’ll stay here. I’ll help you. You’ll be a good king, you will, and I’ll be right there-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Joyce…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t leave. Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs, and holds her hand to his cheek. “It was just an idea.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But one you want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” she trails off. “I wish you didn’t see this life as such a cage.” She pulls away, gathering her books into her arms and standing, as if she’s ready for bed. She hovers, unsure, and he wonders if she thinks he might take a dive out of the nearest window, or steal away with a polka dotted bundle on a stick before daybreak. “Don’t make any big decisions too lightly,” she says finally, bending to brush a kiss across his forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s still early, the fire not yet died down. He watches the bright orange embers until they burn across even his closed eyes.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry this has been a few months coming... if it helps, it's a longish chapter? :D And chapter 4 is almost ready, so won't be long.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next few days are a whirlwind. He spends them half sunken in daydream; memories and what could bes merging until he’s accidentally planned a life for them - morning kisses and ambles through towns - only to blush when he meets with James and catches Jakes’ eye. Because Jakes is looking, he’s sure of it; sometimes casually and sometimes with such </span>
  <em>
    <span>deliberation</span>
  </em>
  <span> he feels the flush speed down his chest. There’s just no chance for them to be alone. It’s frustrating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the third morning George brings his breakfast. Although it’s as delicious as always, he has no appetite. He abandons an early strawberry half-eaten, and pushes the rest of the plate away. Protocol dictates it goes back to the kitchen, but George picks at it instead and Morse says nothing. It makes sense for someone to enjoy it, and it may as well be George.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are your plans today?” George asks finally, finished with the leftovers and moving over to the armoire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morse shrugs. Yesterday his delivery of new books had arrived. He’d been excited when he ordered them, but their pages are dusty and the words dry and flat. They speak of things he now understands, and he would rather feel them again than memory’s pale imitation conveyed through ink and paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Reading, maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George unearths one of his finest day tunics and throws it on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember you’re not my manservant? I’m not paying you extra to mistreat my clothes. I’m not even sure why you’re here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just… if there’s someone you would like to look your best for,” George says cryptically, before trailing off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morse’s brain flashes immediately to Jakes, but George must mean Princess Shirley. Like everyone else. Every moment he’s not in the Princess’ company seems to be an opportunity for someone to needle him about how their relationship progresses. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What relationship</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,</em> he imagines spitting back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She’s a stranger</span>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Even in his mind, he doesn’t dare articulate what he truly wants to say. That there’s another. That he can’t imagine sunshine kisses by the lake with any lady, let alone one like the Princess. That he’d rather have muddy boots than dainty slippers, and the subtle scent of cigarettes over flowers and pretty toilette waters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d be more likely to run into him out there than in here with your nose in a book.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Him. He coughs, choking on nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” he hisses, after a few thumps on the back and a gulp of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No judgement from me, Sire,” George says cheerfully, rooting through his drawers and launching a pair of socks across the room at him. “But you seemed friendly that day in town, and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got George by the front of his shirt, and he feels more than a little ridiculous - but he is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prince</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he has power over his subjects and -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’ll do nothing, he realises. If George chooses to tell - he wouldn’t lock him in the dungeon, or sentence him to the stocks. George isn’t beholden to him. It would be a betrayal, he would have thought them on better terms than that, but even so… telling the truth is not something he can punish because of his own indiscretion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets go, shoulders slumping. “Are you going to tell anyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not on your life!” George chirps. “Or my life, perhaps, more accurately. Like I said, no judgment. So.” He picks up the tunic. “This one? You’ll leave the books for another day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, warily, and allows George to help him dress although the assistance isn’t required. He has no manservant normally; he doesn’t want someone invading his privacy night and day. But when he’s half-shoved out of his quarters and George turns towards the kitchens with a cleared plate, he feels strangely settled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks down the stairs, and ambles automatically towards Joyce’s room. He should knock for her. Except there is Jakes, just half a passageway ahead of him. He’d recognise the planes of that back across oceans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s meant to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jakes!” he hisses, and smiles to himself when the other man stops and looks round, confused. He focuses, finally, on Morse and his face splits in a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are alone. God, they’re actually alone again. Morse has nowhere to be and - “Are you busy?” he asks, as soon as Jakes reaches him. At the other man’s wordless head shake, he lets his hand rest lightly on his arm, before sliding away. “Let me show you the library,” he invents wildly. “In case James or Princess Shirley require reading material, so that you are able to fetch it for them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes smirks. “Lead on, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk a careful shoulder-width apart, Morse slightly ahead as is proper. It niggles at him, to have Jakes ever so slightly out of sight - close, but untouchable - and it keeps his pace up as he weaves through the castle to the library.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The library. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s possibly his favourite place in the castle, barring his own room, and that’s because few other people ever come here. There is a librarian, but he’s ancient and more liable to be found sleeping in the little annex than propped up at his desk. Morse speaks to him once a month to advise on new additions, and otherwise they pass like ships in the night. The desk is indeed empty this morning, so Morse leads Jakes further in until they’re surrounded and hidden from view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the biggest collection, but it has been carefully crafted. He runs his fingertips over an edition of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Achilles and Patroclus</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,</em> then turns to lean against the shelf. Jakes raises an eyebrow, a little smile playing around his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is it,” Morse hears himself saying, and groans inwardly, as if it’s not obvious that they’ve reached the library because of all the - you know - shelves, dust. Books.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see that,” Jakes says, but the sting is dulled by the way he shifts forwards, and the breath catches in Morse’s throat just as lips descend on his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is it. This is everything he’s been wanting, and it’s right here. He digs his fingertips into Jakes’ sides, swallows his light groan, and grins as they press closer, until Jakes is one solid wall of warmth against his front and the shelf digs into his back. Jakes’ hands drift; one snakes up into his hair and pulls it every which way, directing his head until the angle is better, the kiss deeper. The other sweeps down his side and round, keeping him hauled close. He lets his own hands follow paths he’s been dreaming about, clutching too hard but it seems Jakes </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> that -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thump.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls his mouth away, but Jakes just diverts, down his neck and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wow</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that’s distracting. He relaxes, dipping his chin to chase Jakes’ kisses -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Endeavour? Is that you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he hisses, pushing Jakes away at the sound of Joyce’s voice. There’s a nook where they keep the rare, most expensive tomes, and he springs off the shelf and shoves Jakes into it, out of sight, just as Joyce rounds the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morse? Didn’t you hear me calling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm? Ah, yes,” he stumbles, wondering if his hair looks as wild as it feels and if Joyce will put it down to his usual dishevelment or put two and two together and come up with four. Except that’s ridiculous, because who would he be kissing in the bookshelves except Princess Shirley, and no self-respecting lady would be messing up hair before marriage, let alone in public - to some extent of the word - at ten in the morning. “I was looking for that anthology about Persephone, have you borrowed it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She fixes him with a stern look as her pale arm extends past him and removes the book from the shelf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” he says sheepishly, taking it. “Wood, trees, you know.” In the silence, he ruffles the pages and fervently hopes that Jakes’ little neck kisses didn't leave any marks. Although he feels quite flushed anyway, far too much for one reading quietly in a library anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cracks a smile, then laughs. “I thought we agreed you’d read the dirtier books in your room,” she chuckles. “Your face. Ugh, Morse, I don’t want to think about it and I certainly don’t want to walk in on it. Besides you’re meant to be taking Shirley for that garden walk. You’ve cried off for three days thanks to rain, but the sun is shining and you’re not getting out of it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh. That’s why you’re red as a beetroot in the Greek myths section.” She pats him on the head and he rolls his eyes. “Garden. One half of a candle mark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits until she’s gone, and then waits another minute to be sure. Finally, he pops his head into the nook. Jakes meets his eyes; he looks distinctly shaken, and not just from being roughly manhandled and made to breathe in mouldy paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was close,” he says finally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morse nods. He wants to shake it off, wants to take Jakes up in his arms again, but he’s still clutching the book about Persephone and Jakes is holding himself oddly stiffly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jakes-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter,” he whispers. “That’s my first name. I don’t - I don’t use it much, but… so you know.” His fingers scrabble in his pockets while Morse watches, then tuck the resulting cigarette behind his ear rather than lighting it. Perhaps it’s respect for the paper and wood around them. Morse suspects it’s displacement activity, but then his hands dart forward and buy themselves once more in Morse’s hair. It’s becoming a familiar sensation, but it still lights up the pleasure receptors in his brain, even as Jakes - Peter - smooths it back into some kind of order. Perhaps - perhaps they can forget about the threat of discovery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps forward, but Jakes steps back. “I’ve got to go - if you’re going out, Jim will need me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Disappointment curls in his stomach. “Right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I- it’s dangerous, Morse. I could lose my job, you - your reputation-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care about my reputation. And if-” his face twists. He hates to think of Jakes out on the streets as a possibility, but it’s not his risk to dismiss. “I’d help you work it out,” is all he can offer. He’s got the means to set Jakes up as some kind of mistress, but despite only knowing the man a few days he’s already convinced that’s the wrong tack to take. But he’d never see him homeless and starving. He must know that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes groans. “You’re cute, you know that?” He dives in, a brief, feather light kiss and then he’s gone. “You’re trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure whether to be offended or not; cute feels juvenile, trouble feels like too much to bother with. But the kiss, so soft but so sure… he just shifts, an odd mixture of shrug, smile and frown, and even he doesn't know what he was trying to get across with that. But Jakes is smiling again, although it still looks a little fraught. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy is boring,” Jakes says finally. It sounds like a decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. See you in the garden, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The day is warmer than he thought; he’s sweating slightly in his finest tunic. He wonders if Princess Shirley thought he wore it for her, and whether he’s accidentally stabbed himself in the foot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you were meant to be smart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morse curls his lip. They are taking a turn around the prettier flowerbeds, chaperoned (to a certain level of the word) by James and Jakes - but they are far enough back to miss the nuances of the conversation. It is probably for the best, given their conversation is neither amusing nor particularly accomplished. The garden is pleasant, but he’s distracted, and there are a million other places he’d rather be. Such as several paces behind, shoulder to shoulder with Jakes, or even better, back in the library.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am smart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I fear for Lincolnia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she wasn’t a princess, he’d have a few words to say to that. As it is, he stiffens his shoulders but modulates his response. “Is that so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It must sorely need an influx of intelligence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorely need…?” he can’t help repeating, flabbergasted. The nerve! She’s a visitor, a guest in his - and yes, now she’s laughing at him too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haven’t you noticed, Endeavour? I have no wish to marry you, either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. Princess Shirley continues a few steps before turning, and behind them, their chaperones’ rhythmic pattern of feet on gravel ceases. He turns slightly to the side, indicating weakly at a pretty patch of tulips, and she walks back to admire them like that was the intention all along. “You don’t?” he asks in an undertone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks he should probably feel affronted, but contrarily, all his earlier ire has drained away. “Thank the gods.” She laughs, and now that he knows she doesn’t want him, he can admit the sound is pretty, cheering. “Will your father let you refuse?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She starts walking again, more purposefully, and he falls into step. “He was keen for a formal alliance, but perhaps something else can be worked out. Either way, I believe we know each other well enough that we’re unlikely to find ourselves at odds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think my father would allow trade route access in return for a promise of protection for our outlying villages towards Oxfordon.” He realises what he’s said, and hurries to add, “not that it’s within my power to suggest anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like it’s not in mine to accept… but it sounds fair to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles, and on a whim he stoops to pluck a daisy from the lawn. “A flower fit for a princess,” he jokes, holding it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A weed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he’s misjudged the situation. But then she grins, accepts it, and tucks the bloom into her hair like a milkmaid at midsummer. “Pretty and resilient,” she nods. “I’ll take that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk on in silence, until their circuit is complete and they sit on a bench under the rose archway. “I’ll tell my father that I refused your proposal. James will back me up that you offered me a favour; he can say I refused it, no one will believe all you offered was a daisy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at him closely, and without the sun in his eyes, or worry clouding his judgement, he can see her gaze is calm, kind, but above all, keen. “You would make someone a good husband one day, Endeavour. When you want to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I will ever want to be,” he says. It’s meant half in jest, but comes out a shade too honest; a fact he’s uncomfortably sure Shirley catches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, either way,” she says simply, patting him on the arm.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here you go!” George says brightly, early that evening. He dumps an armful of clothing on the bed. “I didn’t fold it, so it would look crumpled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” He picks up the breeches but - hold on. He sniffs. “What is… why do they smell like pond water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I dunked them in the pond, Sire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He resists the urge to bang his head on the table, translating it manfully into nothing more than a raised eyebrow. “Why did you dunk them in the pond, George?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, they went through the palace laundry, didn’t they? So they came out as they always do, but then I realised these are your commoner clothes, and no commoner goes around smelling of roses and lilies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They wash their clothes in the pond?!” He’s never heard of this, but that’s quite unacceptable. They have wells, and if the town’s population are not allowed access to them then that it certainly something he needs to-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, they use clean water and carbolic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. Sometimes talking to George is almost more than he can bear. He reminds himself that not only does George know his secret, but he also proves himself useful. Occasionally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So why do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>use pond water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once they’d put the roses and lilies in, I needed something stronger to cover them up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. In a roundabout way, it does make sense - and it’s a little detail he might not have considered that could have caught him out. He perhaps should be grateful George is looking out for him, in his own way, if only so he can continue on these little jaunts across town with Jakes. He tries to hold his breath as he pulls the clothes on, and then George tweaks him about. His hauling on the rope belt feels entirely different to Jakes doing the same thing, and he smacks his hands away, tying it himself. George unearths a small pot and smears him with dirt instead. “Why did you even bother washing them if we’re then going to paint them with mud?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So they wouldn’t smell… oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs again. Great. Now he gets to go see Jakes looking like an urchin and smelling like a sewer. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Darkness is just falling as he sneaks his way around the evening guard to meet Jakes in what he is coming to think of as their spot. He’s smoking again, but stubs it out on the castle wall, catching Morse by the waist and dragging him in for a kiss. It’s deep straightaway, desire shooting hot and sudden in his stomach, but Jakes slows and pulls away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you smell that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smell what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, just… damp. Musty. You might have a problem with these walls-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s me, can we just drop it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you smell like a dirty puddle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because of George, let’s just move on.” He’d be very keen to get back to where they just were, actually, but they did nominally have a plan for this evening, and his curiosity wars with his lust. He coughs, and steps back, overly conscious of the dirt and the stink. How different it might be if he could sneak Jakes upstairs instead, if they could have a whole night in his soft sheets. But that’s too risky, they’ve come too close to discovery already, and that means rope belts and slicking his hair dark and muddy. “You said something about taking me to see a tavern?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes rolls his eyes. “One ale. Having tried the wine you usually go for, I don’t think I can afford to get you drunk.” He considers, tipping his head to one side. “Maybe two. I’ll throw the second one over you to make you smell better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It can’t be too awful, or Jakes is a true gentleman, because he takes Morse’s hand in the shadows. When they reach the tavern they let go; the room is bright and rowdy, lanterns casting light and warmth across the faces of the patrons. Too open and busy for anything between them, but the buzz of humanity is strangely energising, and he can’t help but smile. Jakes pushes his way to the bar, and Morse finds himself pressed up behind him, the sway of the crowd pushing them together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he blushes. “Here.” He passes across a couple of silver coins; not so big a denomination as to be suspicious on a person of Jakes’ class, but certainly enough to keep the two of them well watered for the evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My turn,” he cuts him off. “As you got the pastries.” It’s rather sweet that Jakes wants to pay for him, he thinks, but it’s also stupid when he has piles of these coins stacked up in his bedside cabinet. Jakes shrugs, turns back to the barwoman, and when he turns again he’s holding two tankards of beer. He slurps from one until the level is low enough to walk with while passing the other to Morse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morse finds his gaze lingering on the wet sheen of Jakes’ lip, and the thought that - technically - he put that there. Perhaps paying for someone is just more socially-appropriate than claiming a kiss. He hurriedly swallows some of his own beer, pushing aside thoughts not suitable to have in public.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes nudges him in the side, and points. “We should go nab that bit of bench.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The table is already occupied, but there’s a stretch of seat available if they don’t mind sitting close, which Morse certainly doesn’t. He thinks Jakes probably doesn’t either, when the toe of his boot loops around Morse’s ankle. He squeezes, and is rewarded with a bright smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it everything you thought it would be?” Jakes asks, leaning in close to speak into his ear. It’s loud in here, that’s all, except the huff of air against his earlobe makes him shiver. “A night on the town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the company that makes it, he thinks but doesn’t say. Just grins, loving the way Jakes smiles back because he wants to, unconstrained by propriety or politeness. “Yep,” he says, taking a deep drink. The beer isn’t good, not like the stuff they get at the castle, but it’s cool and easy to drink and slips away surprisingly quickly. He pushes through to the bar for the next round, then Jakes twice more, then with their final few copper coins he orders them mead instead - the sticky, syrupy alcohol makes Jakes smack his lips. Morse’s hand clenches in the fabric of Jakes’ shirt; low, beneath the line of the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should go,” he whispers hotly in Jakes’ ear. He’s drunk, he knows - he feels loose and easy, the world a bright buzz and Jakes far too solid next to him, something to be grabbed onto and never let go. He wants more. He wants skin under his fingers, the brief flash of that morning not even close to enough. Jakes doesn’t respond, just rises unsteadily to his feet and the two of them spill out onto the street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no idea what time it is. The windows of the dwellings are dark, so it must be late. They walk together, bold in the shadows of a town mostly asleep, hands joined and bumping steps as they weave unsteadily. Morse’s mind reels. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jakes. He wants to pull on his shirt until the buttons give, he wants Jakes’ to make short work of the rope around his hips, he wants to press skin against skin and feel all those things the Greeks wrote about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he also wants this. He wants Jakes murmuring stories into his ear so he can hear above the crowd, jokes whispered slyly until he snorts. He wants Jakes drunkenly spilling beer over them both, then to see him sober the next morning with a head like a banging drum and stroke his hair until the pain abates. He wants days in the market; a sweet pastry eaten sat on a wall with elbows bumping, before they retire home together and fall into a shared bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’s to be king. And no king can go to taverns. No king can wander markets and perch next to pig pens. No king can forsake a queen and heir for a man in their bed.  No matter how much they might want to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jakes,” he says, pulling him to a stop. They are almost at the castle, and he ducks instead down a side alley. The blacksmith who dwells here will be well asleep, ready to be up as the cock crows tomorrow. He leans against the wall and pulls Jakes to him, pours everything he feels into the kiss, his fingers holding tightly to Jakes’ sides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that about?” Jakes asks breathlessly, as they part. He follows it up with another warm kiss, then little nips across Morse’s jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s run away,” he gasps. “Let’s go somewhere, anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes stops, drawing back slowly. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to be king,” he says. It’s no confession, but uttered here in the dark it feels real. Possible. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>run away with Jakes, they could have a thousand nights like this, with a place of their own to stumble home to afterwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jakes asks again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to be king, and I don’t - I don’t have to be. We could leave, go somewhere.” It’s too soon, he knows, but they don’t have the time for maybes. The Oxfordon party is due to leave, especially now the potential of marriage between him and Shirley is gone, and he’s not ready to say goodbye. He’s avoided even the thought of it and - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be easier, he realises with a hollow sort of shock, to say goodbye to Lincolnia than to Jakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can work, as a scribe, or a-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have everything. Morse. You have everything and you’d leave it-” Jakes breaks off and curls his lip incredulously. His expression is splintered; foreign and strangely cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morse swallows. Everything is a strange term. He has money, duty, a sister who loves him. He thought he had Jakes too though, and that was more, that was worth the word everything all on its own. The alcohol in his gut roils and he’s suddenly queasy. He turns away, but Jakes wrenches him back around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Endeavour</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,”</em> he says coldly. “You have everything. Things people would - and have - killed for. And you’d give it all up for - what? A drink in a tavern where no one stares?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, he thinks. And for you. To be with you, to live side by side. But Jakes’ face is set and his eyes are dark flints, and uttering it right now is an impossibility. “Yes,” he answers simply, and leaves it at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes scoffs. “‘Course you would. Because you don’t know what you’re asking for. Just a little prince who doesn’t-” he growls, tugging at his hair until it’s all over the place. Morse wants to smooth the hair back, but Jakes is practically vibrating - he’s sure, if he was to touch, he’d be thrown backwards with the shock. “Doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he spits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then make me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes lets his breath out in a rush, shoulders slumping. “I can’t. Playing peasant… it’s fun, isn’t it?” He smiles, but it’s twisted and humourless, nothing like the bright perfection of shared grins over tankards of ale. “A laugh. Slumming it with me. Living it is different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it wouldn’t all be fun and games,” he says quietly. He has to make him understand. “And don’t - don’t say it like that,” he catches Jakes by the wrist. “Peter,” he whispers. Jakes’ eyes dart to his and soften slightly. “But there are hardships to castle life too-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It just isn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Prince Endeavour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morse gapes. “Jakes,” he starts, as the other man bows. He can still taste him on his tongue, feel the tiny scrape of teeth on his neck that will be healed by morning - but Jakes has packed himself away beneath layers of propriety and subservience. The spark and fire he knew is gone, snuffed. “Peter,” he tries again, softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes rises, eyes still lowered, and walks away.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a subdued gathering in the courtyard the next morning. It’s been a pleasant visit, so it makes sense no one is overjoyed to leave, but he can’t tell if his own black mood is infecting everyone to cause the general sense of misery or not. Even James has lost his smile, as he helps Jakes swing cases onto the top of the carriage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks drawn, and won’t catch his eye, keeping his gaze on the ground or his tasks like a proper servant. He knows he shouldn’t stare, but he can’t help it - he has no time for Shirley or James or the King and Queen, not when any second he turns his eyes away might be the second Jakes chooses to look up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought they might go together. First thing, as the sun rose, with Yarrow and a pack and no plan of where to go, just miles of road ahead that could lead anywhere. And now he’s watching Jakes’ back as he readies to leave him behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll come back… right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice from his elbow is strangely plaintive; he never thought George such an empath, but Morse supposes he is the only one here who really knows what’s leaving. What Morse is watching walk away. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course they will,” says Joan, although even she sounds a little strained. “Our kingdoms are friends now, we will have a reciprocal visit, perhaps this time… next year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And letters,” Morse finds himself adding. He’s not an accomplished letter writer, but his fingers almost itch for ink and paper. He wonders - maybe - if he could explain himself better that way. If maybe he can reverse Jakes’ decision if he finds the right sequence in which to order the alphabet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King and Queen of Oxfordon say their goodbyes to Cyril and Gwen, and nod politely at him and Joyce. Joyce curtsies while he nods back, swallowing around a lump in his throat. And then James and Shirley step forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for entertaining us both,” Shirley says with a warm smile. Her eyes flick to the side, then land back on him, and he attempts a smile back. He regrets, vaguely, not getting to know Shirley better. By the time he realised there was no danger in it, they were too close to leaving. “I expect long rambling letters on all the ins and outs of the Lincolnia court and household, and Joyce - you really must send me your sketches. They’re so wonderful I wish to form my own Princess Joyce gallery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will try my best,” she promises, as they clasp hands. “But you must do me the same courtesy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shirley rolls her eyes, but by the time she answers they twinkle with amusement. “You merely wish to embarrass me. But it shan’t work, I take no pride in my skill and therefore the lack of it doesn’t hurt me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome back any time,” Morse adds, and watches as Shirley turns away. Jakes helps her into the carriage, and he can’t help but watch, hoping they are close enough that people might think him admiring the thin ankle peeping from beneath her skirts rather than the way the fabric of Jakes’ shirt stretches and crumples. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you must visit us,” says James, tearing his attention back to the prince in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will,” Joyce promises. “You said to show me the delights of the - was it the Cherwell? - and so I will hold you to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James shakes Morse’s hand, then turns to Joyce. “No delight can compare to Lincolnia. But of course, I look forward to showing you my home.” He takes her hand and kisses it. Perhaps Morse should have done that with Shirley? He can’t remember the etiquette. It doesn’t seem to matter much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the party files to their posts, and Jakes swings atop the mare he rode that day down to the lake. He turns, finally, as they reach the gates, but he’s far enough away now that his expression is indiscernible. Morse raises his hand in a half wave, and they’re gone.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Um... just remember we're only halfway through? I will fix things!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Something a bit different for this chapter!  Please see handwriting styles; I hope it's followable.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: <em> Shirley, </em> Joyce , <strong>Morse</strong> , <strong> <em>Jakes</em> </strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> My dearest Joyce, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> It feels like many weeks since we parted company, but my calendar tells me it has been only two. Two whole weeks of nothing but James and Jakes; your presence spoiled me during our stay in Lincolnia. I hadn’t realised how much I longed for sensible female conversation. Do you, by any chance, fancy a return trip soon?! </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> There is something I must ask, however. While I hesitate to put it in a letter, I hesitated to ask while we were side by side also, and now my curiosity is simply too great. James has been in a dark mood since we returned, that not even seeing his favourite hunting dog, Scout, has helped to lift. It set my brain working… and I remembered seeing the two of you with heads bowed more than once. Is there a fond feeling between you? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I won’t ask you to confirm. If I am wrong, simply deny - and if I am right, breeze past my insinuations and fail to mention them and I will take that as confirmation enough.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> And now to more important matters. I mentioned the little trouble I’d had with the farmer dispute - you remember, the cow who trampled the neighbour’s piglets - and am pleased to announce that they took my advice despite my absence. They are not quite friends, I am sure, but there have been no further pitchforks at dawn which considering the hot tempers of these two I count as almost a miracle.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> You must also tell me of your progress on your painting, and remember that I wish to paper my walls with your artwork. As requested, I have included a little sketch of my own - I have attempted to capture the likeness of my horse Truckle. You will no doubt see that my penmanship has better mastery over words than pictures. Please do enjoy laughing over this with Endeavour. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> With fondest thoughts, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Shirley </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Jakes,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <strong>I’m not an accomplished letter writer, but we left things… I would have rather we parted on better terms. I cannot rescind my thoughts. I stand by them. But we...</strong>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>I hope your journey back was quick and comfortable. No doubt it is good to be home. Joyce and I enjoyed the company of you, James and Princess Shirley, and would bid you return any time.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Morse</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dear Shirley,</p>
<p>As ever, your words bring light into our gloomy home! Endeavour has been in a pig of a mood too, so no doubt he is missing James just as much as James is missing him. He has been spending long nights with his books and disappearing during the days. If there is one improvement it seems to be a rather unusual friendship with the servant George; I don’t know if you recall him? He is younger, and has always been a bit of a character. I admit at one point I thought Endeavour would grow so exasperated with him that he’d be out on his ear, but it appears they have found common ground at last.</p>
<p>I am so glad you managed the farmer kerfuffle. I unfortunately am not allowed such leeway in our court; my father receives the people and the only royal who asks for my advice is Endeavour. </p>
<p>My painting has stalled, as has my sketching. I find myself rather distracted in the evenings, and unable to settle to my work. As soon as this odd funk lifts I will, of course, supply you with wallpaper. In the meantime I have started my own little collection of Shirley originals, and fully intend to hold a formal gallery opening in the spring.</p>
<p>With warmest regards,</p>
<p>Joyce</p>
<p>P.S. Of course we would love to visit, if you were serious? Timing may be tricky… naturally, we would also host you any time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>M,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>The journey was fine. Jim and Shirl were silent the whole way - I think Jim is a little in love, and I’d be jealous if I didn’t know him so well as to guess where his heart might lie - but Shirl is a mystery. The servants were more chatty, or the ride would have been unbearable.</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Thank you for your hospitality. </em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Best,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>J</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>J,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Hospitality? That doesn’t come as standard.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>M</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>M,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Not what I meant, I - fuck, Morse, you know that’s not what I meant.</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>J</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> My dearest Joyce, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I noticed your lack of answer on a certain subject and will now mention it no further until we can giggle about it like sisters. I confess to fond feelings myself… but it is not something to put in a letter. I will wait until we are together. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Yes, I remember George. He seemed pleasant and I am glad his position is secure. Should Endeavour ever change his mind however, he may apply for a position in our court instead - I’m sure we would be able to find something for him to do. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I am sorry to hear of your creative difficulties. It happens to us all. As you can see from my recent inclusion, my difficulty is a total lack of talent. I have included an inscription so any gallery attendees are able to tell it is meant to be a portrait of James and Jakes. However if you prefer to leave it off and advertise it as an impressionistic styling in the modernist form, then that is your prerogative and may fetch a higher price tag. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> With fondest thoughts, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Shirley </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>J,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Then what did you mean?</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>M</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>M,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>I meant the lake was a highlight of, possibly, my life, let alone the trip. So was the town, and the library, and the tavern. </em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Yours,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>J</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>J,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Oh. Me too.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Does that mean you’d reconsider our final conversation?</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>M</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>To Princess Shirley,</strong>
</p>
<p><strong>Thank you for</strong> <strong> your attendance during your recent visit to Lincolnia. Our walk in the garden - and the things discussed - was a pleasant way to spend an hour. I hope your</strong> <strong> ret</strong> <strong>urn</strong> <strong> journey was smooth and that the flowerbeds of your gardens can hold a candle to ours.</strong></p>
<p>
  <strong>Best wishes,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Prince Endeavour</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> <strong>Dear M,</strong> </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> <strong>I can’t. I’d like to, but - it doesn’t change anything. I couldn’t see you suffer.</strong> </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> <strong>Yours,</strong> </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> <strong>J</strong> </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>J,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>But I suffer now.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>M</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>J,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Wait, what did you mean about James and love?</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>M</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Dear M,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Late to the party, aren’t you? He’s head over heels for your sister.</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>You might suffer, but I can’t currently see it. For which I’m glad, James is more than enough to put up with.</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Yours,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>J</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>J - Joyce?! And James?!</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Endeavour, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Your letter was a joy to receive even if it was as brief as the glint of sunlight on a starling’s wing. For one so fond of books, you would think your ability to write would extend beyond that of the average four year old. Still, I suppose we all have our talents. One day you will uncover yours. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> James and I have spent the last few weeks riding as often as possible, but both he and Jakes are bad company at the moment. It almost makes me wish for our walks in the Lincolnia gardens, so that tells you how bad they are, if I miss your presence. Our gardens are now full of sneezeweed and penstemons which means it is truly the last hurrah of summer, and if they are unable to find cheer in such a sweet smelling sun-dappled grove I may have to knock their heads together during winter’s depths.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Still, there is some amusement to come, which I hope will lift their spirits. We are due soon to travel to Yorkshire. The Duke there is a good friend of James’, and the three of them usually spend long days out hunting while I ensconce myself in a warm library. Perhaps killing things will help - it usually seems to, and as such, I fear I will never understand the male psyche.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> We wondered whether we might spend a day or two with you to break our journey? Our parents would never ask, given that we have not yet repaid your kindness and had you to stay at our court. But James and I consider you, Joyce and the people of Lincolnia to be our friends. And as friends, we hope you would forgive our breach in protocol. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> With warmest wishes and sharpest wit, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Shirley </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Dear M,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>I know you’re better off than most, but you might consider slightly more than three words and an initial per piece of paper and stamp.</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Shirl mentioned we might be coming back your way…</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Yours,</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>J</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dear Shirley,</p>
<p>My apologies for the brevity, but my hope is this reaches you before you set out on your journey to Yorkshire. We would be delighted to have your party stay with us, and given the cryptic hints in your last letter I am most anxious to catch up. Send word when you are on your way, and we will have chambers readied and geese roasted.</p>
<p>Safe travels,</p>
<p>Joyce (<strong>and Endeavour</strong>)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Dear J,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Yes, I heard the same. I don’t know if you’ll even get this, you might cross on route. I thought writing might be easier to say the things I wanted to say, but now I will say them to your face instead.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>If what you say is true, J and J will be distracted. That means we only need to ditch Shirley…</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Yours,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>M</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
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